


The Red Tower of Ecthelion

by AnnaFan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle wounds, Descriptions of battle, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3209921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exhausted Lothiriel takes refuge from her day of helping the Healers during the battle of Pelennor.  She falls asleep in a half-ruined guard tower on the walls, but is awakened by the arrival of a battle weary warrior, a horselord from the north.</p><p>Published under "fair use" legislation governing transformative works, and as "creative commons" - i.e. any redistribution should acknowledge me as author and should NOT be for commercial gain.  This work should not be posted to other sites without my express permission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red Tower of Ecthelion

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea for a one-shot I've had rattling round for the six months or more. I've ended up writing it now because it fits with the point I've reached in my much longer story, Flower of Ice and Steel. It is self contained (you don't have to read the longer story), but I'm publishing it now because it will provide extra context for the next chapter. Although it's self contained, it is part of a wider story-arc which will gradually get written.
> 
> With thanks to the Ladies of the Garden of Ithilien for help and useful comments.

The tower stood on a half-hidden portion of wall between the third and fourth circles of the city. The rest of the city glistened white, built from the same stone as the mountain to which it clung. But the tower was built from a red sandstone, quarried from near the mouth of Anduin and brought up the river by barge, many centuries ago. At some stage it had been stuccoed and painted to match the gleaming white of the rest of the town, but now the stucco had crumbled away, only a few remnants remaining. To the downhill side of the wall lay a garden, with tall trees which overhung the low battlements. The highest branches reached part way up the rust-coloured walls of the tower, but its top stretched up above the trees towards the lowering clouds above. In her childhood, it had always puzzled Lothíriel as to why there were two towers of Ecthelion; not till she was considerably older did she manage to make sense of the tale. In the distant past, when Osgiliath had been the main city of Gondor, the Tower of Arnor had been built to match the Tower of Ithil: one red like the setting sun, the other glittering white like the full moon. Later, the rest of the the citadel had been built, climbing up the flank of the mountain. History did not record why Ecthelion's name had been attached to it; her tutor had told her that in all probability it had nothing to do with him. She brushed away the loose strand of hair which fell in front of her face. How odd that these odd snippets of information from years early should pop into her mind now. Still, better any strange flights of fancy than letting herself remember today's events. 

Bone tired, Lothíriel made her way along the level flagstones to the archway which led into the tower's interior. Mistress Ioreth had sent her to her quarters to rest, but sleep would not come. Her head spun, and every time she tried to close her eyes images of bloodied, ragged-edged wounds and severed limbs danced across the back of her lids. She needed to escape from the Houses, where the charnel smell seemed to imbue the very walls, away from people, away from the clamour of a city torn by a desperate siege, battered almost into destruction. Her feet seemed to lead her here without her mind being engaged – she merely retraced without thinking the path to one of her favourite childhood hiding places, one which placed her out of reach of her forbidding uncle on the family's visits to Minas Tirith.

She walked through the arch into the gloom beyond. Even on a sunny day, little light penetrated through the narrow arrow slits in the walls, but in this long lingering twilight to which the world seemed condemned, it was as if the air clung to her body like a thick, dark cloak. The sun had come out briefly earlier in the day, round about the time the siege was lifted, but now it had dipped behind Mount Mindolluin, and the world once more lay in half-darkness. Above the plains, clouds streaked across the sky towards the distant mountains, turning from a dull red to steel grey as they reached out their tendrils towards the East.

She walked over to one of the window recesses, and with a sigh, settled on the ledge. She slumped back against the wall and let her cheek rest against the cold stone. Her vision clouded by too many hours of wakefulness, too many tiny stitches made by the inadequate light of candles into flesh that flinched beneath her touch, she stared through the opening into the garden below. In the last light of dusk, twigs of the trees glowed rose coloured like coral, and the evergreens swayed like seaweed in the currents below the surface of the ocean.

How long she sat, she was not sure. Every fibre of her body cried out for sleep, but her mind allowed her no rest. It whirled like a child's top, full of images she wanted to forget, full of worry for the future. Her father and brothers had survived this battle, but surely there were more to come. And her imagination played her false; if she shut her eyes, she saw the wounded men in the houses, but their faces were replaced by those of her own kin. So, despite the feeling that her eyes were full of grit, she kept them open and stared blankly into the garden. More memories came to her 

Her cousin, her kind, gentle cousin, lay near to death in the Houses. He had been her favourite cousin, unusually (for a young man) prepared to take a small child's imaginary games entirely seriously. Boromir, not surprisingly, had been closer to her brothers, always prepared to lift a practice sword against them. She gave herself a shake: here she was thinking of Faramir as if he were already dead, like his brother. When she had left the houses he still clung to life, albeit pale, his brow burning hot, his breathing shallow and laboured. She had kept him company for a while during a brief break, but it was not long before she had to return to her duties. 

She shivered at the thought of the turn of events which had left him there, and of the memory of the last time she had seen him with her uncle. Her father had taken her up to the Steward's palace to visit Faramir. He lay, tossing in fever, and the stern figure of the Steward sat beside him. A glance at her uncle's face had left her feeling sympathy towards him for the first time in her life. His face still stern, his eyes nonetheless spoke of bottomless sorrow. He had sat beside the bed and clasped Faramir's hand, and as she had taken her leave, she had this fleeting sense of a man on the brink of breaking completely, like a barque tossed by a storm, heading inexorably towards razor sharp reefs. She felt a sudden wave of nausea at the realisation that her premonition had proved to be a vision of things to come.

Desperately, she tried to remember happier times, but no pictures would come to her mind. It was as if the world had always been thus: dark, filled with pain, teetering on the brink of doom. Her imagination failing her, she tried instead to play a game: how many trees could she name? Ash, oak, cherry, pine, cedar, beech... She made herself examine each one, tracing the shape of the canopy, trying to picture the outline of the leaves once they unfurled in spring, trying to describe to herself the subtle differences in green from one to the next. After a dozen or so, the exercise began to have the desired effect. Her pulse and breathing slowed, her eyelids began to droop.

~o~O~o~

A male voice echoed round the chamber, and she woke with a start. She sat up awkwardly, prising herself away from the stone wall, realising as she did so that she had the most terrible crick in her neck. A lock of her hair had come loose, dark strands flopping over her eyes, and she brushed it behind her ear, blinking bleary-eyed and trying to focus on the scene before her.

“Your pardon, mistress healer,” said the voice. It was deep, slightly accented. She turned towards the door. The figure was huge – tall, broad-shouldered, clad in armour, a plumed helm tucked under his arm, but all she could really see of him was his silhouette. He, in contrast, must have been able to make out some of her features, for he continued with a slightly embarrassed air, “Your pardon, not mistress.” He paused as if confused, then said, “I beg your indulgence, for I have no idea of the correct form of address in your language for a lady not yet married.”

She waved her hand to dismiss his embarrassment as being of no import. “Mistress, lady, it makes no odds to me. After the sights I have seen today, I feel as old as the guardians of Manwë's halls.” The man inclined his head slightly, seemingly showing respect for her words.

“The stains on your gown bear witness to your struggles, my lady. It seems you have been in as great a battle as I. I shall leave you to your solitude, for I guess that you too came here seeking to escape from the hubbub of people in the Houses.” He paused for a moment,and Lothíriel cast a quick glance at her skirts. Sure enough, they were covered with smears of blood and other marks. But the man continued, his voice surprisingly gentle for such a forbidding figure, “Though if I might suggest, it would be well perhaps for you to return to your lodgings. That embrasure does not look as though it makes for a comfortable resting place.”

“Alas, sir, my lodgings are, as with all the Healers and their assistants, within the Houses, and there is no escape from the noises, from the smells...” Here, she realised her voice wavered just for an instant, and pulling herself together, she finished, “There is no rest to be had within those walls, not for me.”

The man hesitated for an instant, as if uncertain what to do next. Then, seemingly reaching a decision, he stepped into the chamber. His hands went to his breast and he unclasped the dark green cloak which hung from his shoulders, folded it and laid it on the floor beside the wall, before retreating and settling on the floor a few feet away. 

“You are welcome to use my cloak as a cushion, my lady.”

“And what of you?” she asked. “I recognise your gear... You are one of the Rohirrim, who have ridden to our aid. You must be exhausted. Surely, you too are in need of rest, or at the very least, of comfort.”

“Nay, lady. I cannot seem to settle to take any rest. Strange, for I am weary to the bone. But my mind will not allow it.”

Lothíriel nodded. “It was so for me, for a while. Then sleep came anyway.”

“Ah, hence your strange resting place.”

“Yes, it was chosen as a spot from which to look into the garden below, in an attempt to divert my mind from remembering.”

“Would you...” He was hesitant, wary of being rebuffed. “Would you perhaps talk to me, that I might be similarly diverted? I too need to stop my mind from whirring. What was it you looked upon?”

“The trees. I was engaged in a childish game of trying to recognise as many trees as I could. Oak, ash, cedar...”

“Cedar? We do not have those in the Riddermark, the climate is too cold. What do they look like?”

“They are a beautiful tree...” Lothíriel paused, trying to think of a description. “They have a broad canopy, and it spreads almost like shelves of leaves... Oh, my words cannot do them justice, and it is too dark to see them in the garden now.” As she said this, she realised that it was now almost too dark within the chamber for them to see one another. She could only hear his voice, deep and rich and somehow comforting. No sooner had this odd thought come to her than he spoke once more.

“Is there a hearth within this tower? I did not think to look when I came in, and I can see naught of its interior now.”

“Yes,” Lothiriel answered. “It is over to your left. If you follow the wall to the corner, then along a bit further, you should come to it. It is set back in a large recess in the wall, beneath the chimney. I think there was some wood and kindling next to the grate. I think m... someone must have issued orders that every guard tower on the walls be well provisioned and equipped for siege, and some junior officer, taking his orders entirely literally, stocked even this old ruin.” 

She listened to the clank of his armour, then his measured steps as he rose and made his way, a scuffing sound indicating that he was running his hand along the wall. As she sat in the darkness, it came to her that she had instinctively recoiled from revealing her identity to the man. Somehow, the idea of being simply an anonymous woman, a healer's assistant in her grey drab dress, no different from all the others, seemed appealing beyond measure. It was as if a huge responsibility were lifted from her shoulders. To be a nobody, alone in this tower with another nobody, an equally anonymous man from a far flung realm, seemed to bring a strange sense of peace. 

“Here it is,” he said. More sounds followed: the knocking of pieces of wood, the rustle of wood shavings, the rattle of dry twigs. Then came the metallic ring of a fire-steel, and Lothíriel's eyes were stung by the sudden flash of a shower of sparks. It took him two or three attempts to get the wood shavings to catch, then by the light of the first tiny flames, she made out his bulky figure kneeling before the grate, blowing gently on the kindling to get the fire to take. Finally, satisfied that the fire was established, he stood and stretched. She heard the sound of his bones crack, and then he gave a soft sigh.

“My lady, would you be offended if I were to take off some of my armour? It is not exactly conducive to rest.” Again his voice sounded hesitant, and she found herself smiling, both at his request, made as if they were at some sort of polite social event, and also at the wry humour she sensed underlying his very formal choice of words.

“I would take no offence,” she said, adding, “That is, if you would not take offence and think it forward of me to come and sit at the other side of the fire nook from you.” She was rewarded with a chuckle. She saw his hands go to his sides and fiddle with the buckles on his armour.

“May I help?” she asked, then mentally took herself to task for allowing her mouth to speak before her mind had had time to register the impropriety of her offer. She tried to cover up her embarrassment: “I mean, often times I have helped my brothers with their armour – it is a task I am accustomed to.”

“If you please, my lady,” the man replied, lifting his arms out of the way. He added, “Were your brothers in the battle today? Did they...” His voice tailed off, as if aware that he might have prompted memories she would rather forget.

“Aye, they were, and thank the Valar, all three survived. And my father. Others I know were not so lucky. My cousin... and the many men who did not survive even once brought to the Healers.” She could tell a note of pain had crept into her voice.

“I am sorry to hear of your cousin, but glad that your immediate family were spared.”

“Oh, I did not mean... he lives still, but only just. I do not know if he will make it through the night.” For a moment, her eyes met his, glinting in the firelight, and she saw pain and loss in his face. Embarrassed by the strength of feelings as much as by the proximity, she ducked her head and busied herself on the buckles. “There.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He eased the backplate and breastplate off, revealing chain mail beneath. Lothíriel retreated to the other side of the nook and settled on his folded cloak once more. The man unlaced the mail shirt and took it off. As he did so, Lothíriel caught an almost overpowering whiff of sweat – the rank smell of someone who has not washed in weeks. She struggled to keep her countenance, determined not to offend him. This man and his comrades had ridden countless leagues, joined in battle for the sake of a foreign country, and had saved them all from conquest and death. She could do better than let a bit of sweat bother her. She forced herself to meet his gaze once more, and saw the same sadness there.

“And you? You have ridden far. Did your kin come with you?” Lothíriel swallowed, wondering whether to voice her thoughts. She could see the man was troubled. Would it help him if she tried to draw him out, or should she leave him to dwell on his sorrow in private? Again, her voice seemed to overrule her brain, her tongue carrying on without regard for her conscious thoughts. “How did they fare in the battle?” She was taken aback by her sudden bluntness, she who had been schooled in diplomacy from an early age. Yet something about the man compelled honesty... well, some measure of honesty, at any rate. She still had no intention of announcing herself to be the Princess of Dol Amroth.

He nodded, then said, “My uncle. He died upon the battlefield. He was like a father to me. And... one of my kin also lies near to death in the Houses.” He slumped back against the wall and slid down till he came to rest on the flagstones beside the grate. “At first I thought them both dead.” He let his head droop, and covered his face with his hands for a moment, before pushing his hair back from his face and looking at her. Those eyes – they really were piercing, she thought. “Then the madness of battle came upon me, and I cared not whether I lived or died, and I rode across the plain hewing all before me.” He paused, then said, “I am sorry, that is not a fit thing to talk of in front of a lady. You need no account from me of the horrors of this day, no account which would trouble your dreams.”

“Nay, sir, my dreams are already like to be troubled by memories of sword slashes, bleeding stumps, men crying in agony. You can trouble me no more than I am already. By all means talk, if to talk helps you to chase away the demons of today.”

He turned his gaze from her to the flames, and it was almost as if he lost himself in the flickering, dancing tongues of fire for long moments. Lothíriel took the opportunity to examine the strange new acquaintance in whose company she found herself. Her first impression had been his size, her the way his sharp eyes seemed to take in everything before him. But now she found herself taking in more details. Dark blond hair hung in tangles to below his shoulders, longer than was the fashion in Gondor. It looked as if it had not been combed or braided for some weeks, though she supposed this was not really surprising. His beard was similarly unkempt, though the outline of it lay relatively low on his cheeks; his was not the sort of beard that obscured most of the face and left you wondering at what manner of man lay beneath. She could see his face clearly, his broad cheekbones, the outline of his jaw – a remarkably fair face. He was, she realised, quite young – certainly younger than her cousin, possibly the same age as her eldest brother. For all that, there was a furrow of worry between his brows, and faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He was strongly built, heavier in build than her brothers, much heavier than the wiry strength of her cousin, but not thickset. From what she had seen of him when he first entered the tower, she recalled that he moved with a surprising grace for a big man.

 

With a start she realised he had looked up, and she quickly dropped her eyes, though not before catching his gaze for an instant. How embarrassing to be caught out in such close scrutiny. She felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment, and hoped that the red glow from the fire would obscure her blushes. But the man seemed not to notice her discomfiture, for he began to speak of the battle, staring into the fire as he did so.

“When I saw my kin lying slain – both slain, as I thought – I leapt into my saddle and called my men to ride with me, and we swept all before us. We cried to the heavens as we rode – a single cry of 'Death'. My throat was raw with the cry, and my sword ran with blood. The blood of orcs will not cause me a moment's pause, but we slew men too – enemies from the far distant lands of the south, but men like us. At the time my mind was filled with the red roaring rage of vengeance. But now that cloud has cleared, I find their faces etched on my mind's eye. They may have been sworn enemies, but they bled like us, they felt fear like us, they felt pain like us. I can still see the eyes of the dying, terrified, turned to the heaven and whatever gods they called upon for help. But their gods gave them no help and we drove them all the way to the river, and the waters turned red with their blood. And I saw my own men fall, men I had known since childhood, slain with arrows, axes, scimitars, falling dead-eyed into the mud beneath the horses' hoofs. And the red blood of men – friends and foe – mingled with the darker blood of the orcs, and there was no succour for anyone.”

Lothíriel realised the strange half-stifled gasp had in fact come from her; stifled because she was biting down on her knuckles. The Rohir suddenly looked across the nook at her, his face carrying a mixture of shock and guilt. 

“My lady, I beg your pardon. In my sorrow and tiredness, I forgot that these tales are not fit for a woman's ear. I should not have spoken of such things.”

Lothíriel thought of her brothers, and the way they made light of their experiences of war. “Perhaps if you had had another day to regain your composure, you would not have spoken of them. But it is all too fresh in your mind. I think you need to speak, else you would be driven mad by waking nightmares of the sights you saw.” The man nodded, and Lothíriel continued. “I spent today trying to hold down men's limbs as the healers sewed up gashes in arms and legs. I am not a healer, merely a woman trying to help by bearing buckets, bringing drinks to men whose throats are parched from the fires of battle, bringing fresh bandages and taking the soiled ones away to the fires. Today, for the first time, I saw muscles ripped apart, veins and sinews and bone laid bare, men dying slowly in agony. I too see these things every time I shut my eyes.”

“But you were at least trying to help, to heal. I have been in battle many times. I first rode out on sorties when I had but fourteen summers behind me. Many times I have slain foes in defence of my home and loved ones. I have slain foes who had laid waste to villages, killing women and children. But never have I been consumed by the blind urge to slay all before me. I did not know myself, and I am... I am afraid of the monster I became.”

Lothíriel looked at him. His face was stern, sad beyond his years, as if the burdens of the whole world rested on him. She took a deep breath, thinking of her response. To offer trite platitudes would be to insult the man before her. Eventually she spoke. “You slew enemy soldiers on the battlefield. A monster would be a man who then rode on into their country, putting their women and children to the sword as you describe your enemies as having done.”

There was a long pause, during which Lothíriel turned her attention to the flickers of flame licking round the logs in the grate. Strangely, she did not feel the urge to fill the silence. It stretched between them, speaking of comradeship and shared pain, not of awkwardness. Eventually she looked up at him.

He sat with his knees drawn up, wrists resting on top of them, staring at his hands. His hands were shaking, seemingly beyond his control, and he sat looking, a faint frown of puzzlement between his brows, as if he could not understand why they were behaving so, or indeed even if they were his rather than belonging to someone else entirely. She recalled seeing men in this state in the houses. One of the healers had spoken of it as the fey melancholy humour which struck down those whose minds had been overwrought in battle. Lothiriel rose, picking up the cloak, and crossed the gap. She spread the heavy woollen cloth over his hands and round his shoulders. She knelt facing him, placing her hands atop his, with the rough fabric between them. He bowed his head, and she sat back on her heels, wordlessly waiting for him. Eventually, the shaking stopped, and she moved round to sit beside him, back against the stone wall of the nook, facing the fire.

“I am sorry, my lady, to have let you see me in this state. You must think me an abject coward.” His voice was muffled, his head hanging forward, chin buried in the dark green cloak.

“No, how could anyone think you a coward? You and your comrades saved us. We would all be lying dead in the streets by now were it not for you. And I saw enough of the injuries sustained to think that any man not feeling shaky after a battle like that would have to be insensible to the point of being little more than a brute animal.”

“You are kind, my lady, and tolerant of human frailty.”

“All of us are frail,” Lothíriel said, adding dryly, “I am told by those who study lore and who have made the comparison between our weak frames and those of the Eldar that our frailty is, apparently, the gift of Illuvatar.”

The man gave a soft laugh. With that, they lapsed into companionable silence. Lothíriel fixed her attention on the flames once more, basking in the heat that radiated from the hearth. The quiet seemed to flow round them, disturbed only by the gentle pop of sparks from the fire and the soft crackle of the flames licking round the logs. The man shifted slightly, apparently trying to get himself into a more comfortable position, though careful not to come into contact with her. Nonetheless Lothíriel could feel the warmth from his body even across the small gap between them. It surprised her that she felt quite calm in his presence and untroubled by his proximity. She had overheard the housekeeper warning the maids in her father's house to beware of men returned from battle: they were prone, so the woman said, to fits of unpredictable rage and lusty desires. This last comment was immediately succeeded by the realisation that Lothíriel was there, standing in the shadows, and the housekeeper had come to an abrupt and embarrassed halt in her lecture, muttering apologies that she had not meant her words to be overheard by a lady of quality, and an innocent maid to boot. And yet now, sitting next to this man she had never met, she found that she felt quite safe. 

Lothíriel let her mind drift, thinking back to childhood games of hide-and-seek with her brothers along this section of wall, and to walks in the gardens below, often accompanied by her cousins. Boromir seemed always to fall back on teasing her, as if he could think of no other way of interacting with a girl child. But Faramir had a wealth of stories about elves and people of yore with which to entertain her, and always seemed to take her endless flow of questions entirely seriously. Suddenly she felt a lump in her throat as she remembered Boromir was dead, and Faramir probably dying. She tried to force her thoughts in a different direction, to think of her brothers, but the realisation that this was only the first battle, to be succeeded by more, each one more desperate than the last. She felt hot tears stinging her eyes, and swallowed hard. But it was no good; the tears could not be held at bay, nor could she suppress a loud sniff. She started to cry in earnest, not delicate, ladylike sadness, but gulping, snotty sobs.

To her surprise, the man next to her lifted his head to look at her, and silently put his arm around her, cradling her head against his shoulder. He held her through the racking sobs and storm of grief, until eventually she had cried all her tears and could cry no more. There were a few moments of dry sobs, then she relaxed against him. She managed to speak in a small voice.

“I have lost one cousin, likely to lose another before the night is out... and then there will be more battles, and more, until all that I love are dead, and the world is lost.”

The man reached out with his free hand and stroked her hair. “I wish I could promise that the world would continue, that those you love would come back victorious. But I can offer no such promises. The only promise I can offer is that I will fight, and those like me will fight, as best we can, for our comrades and for our homes.”

“And now it is my turn to be sorry for cowardice,” Lothíriel answered.

“Cowardice? Nay, there is no cowardice in mourning those you have lost, those who have died bravely, nor in feeling fear for those you love on the eve of battle.” The man let his hand drop from her hair and turned slightly, facing away from her and gazing at the flames once more. His right arm remained around her shoulders, however. It occurred to Lothiriel that she should move, should protest, but she found that she craved the contact, the warmth of another being who was alive.

“Have you always lived in Minas Tirith?” Lothíriel started at the sudden non-sequitur, then realised that probably the Rohir was making an effort to distract her from the melancholy thoughts which had threatened to swamp her.

“No, I come from the coast. I came here with my father and brothers when word came that the Citadel was in need of aid. My father did not want me to come, but I knew how desperate the situation was, and wanted to accompany them in case it was the last time I saw them. Besides, I have been making myself useful in the Houses. After the rout on the retreat from Osgiliath, the Healers realised that they would be overcome by the sheer numbers of wounded in the coming battle, and that any help they could get would be useful.” She stopped, anxious not to let her thoughts return to the carnage of the last few days. Despite his best efforts, it seemed that her mind kept circling inexorably back to the very things she was trying to forget. But her unlikely companion was not so easily put off (perhaps, Lothíriel reflected, he was every bit as keen to stop his own thoughts from heading towards the same images).

“I have never seen the sea,” he said. “Tell me about your home.”

“It is a port, clinging to the cliffs of a steep-sided bay – the water there is deep, so ships with deep draughts and keels can safely anchor within its shelter, hence its waters are home not just to fishing vessels but to much of Gondor's navy. At the top of the cliffs on the southern headland is the castle of Dol Amroth.”

“Dol Amroth,” the man said, thoughtfully, and for a moment Lothíriel feared he was going to ask who she was, or, worse, guess. But it turned out he was thinking of something entirely different, for he continued, “I rode from the battlefield in the company of the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth. They acquitted themselves well.”

“High praise indeed from a horseman of Rohan,” she replied, feeling her mouth turning into a slight smile.

“I can recognise skill in another. There are other nations whose horsemanship is impressive – the lightly clad but swift horsemen of the Haradwaith, with their fine boned horses that almost none other than a Meara can best over short distances. Of course,” and here Lothíriel heard what she thought was a slight teasing note enter his voice, “they are impressive, but not as impressive as the horse men of my own nation.”

“Naturally,” said Lothíriel, dryly, and her tone of voice was rewarded with a slight chuckle.

Lothíriel found it strange: how easily they talked to one another; how comfortably warm she felt, with his arm loosely around her shoulder. There was something reassuring and unthreatening in his pose. She knew that if she moved away from him, he would let his arm fall away without fuss, and that knowledge in turn made it easy to stay exactly where she was, warm and comfortable and comforted. She told herself that it was no different from sitting with one of her brothers, but at the back of her mind there was an undercurrent of something that let her know she was lying to herself. Still, no matter, she thought – whatever might or might not be going on in parts of her mind she refused to look at too closely, parts of her mind that perhaps a young woman of her standing should leave unexamined, she felt quite sure that none of these unacknowledged thoughts would be acted upon, and surely that was enough.

Their conversation ranged far and wide. It seemed that, having exorcised the horrors of the day, they were now free to talk of other things – the sea, the training of horses, their childhoods. She discovered the man had a sister, but although he was happy to recall their childhood, he seemed strangely reticent about talking of her more recent life. And underneath the reticence, she sensed a deep sadness. Puzzled, Lothíriel was tempted to probe further, but it seemed that this would break the rules of their unspoken agreement to remain anonymous strangers. She let him change the subject, asking her once more about the coast. As he asked questions about her family, it was her turn to become slightly evasive. She felt a slight movement, a stiffening, which let her know that he too had picked up her feelings of reserve, just as clearly as she had felt his. And like her, he too allowed a change of subject. It was almost like a fencing match where each probed for the other's weaknesses but refused to press home because after all, this was merely a friendly practice bout.

She was not sure how much time passed. Every so often he would add a log to the fire from the diminishing stock beside the grate. His soft baritone voice soothed her, and she started to feel slightly drowsy. The silences between their exchanges of conversation stretched out, comfortable and companionable. And, much as she tried to ignore it, that little undercurrent of something, something she could not identify but suspected she should not be feeling, that undercurrent grew along with the companionable warmth. It occurred to Lothíriel to wonder if he felt something similar, and to wonder how one might know if he did, or indeed what it would mean if he did.

Suddenly, through the window came the sound of a brazen note cutting the night air, plangent intervals, stark, calling men to action. The man started in alarm.

“The trumpet for the changing of the watch,” Lothíriel said. “It is later than I realised. I must get back to the Houses.”

The man stood and offered his hand. “Let me walk you back there.” Lothíriel let him draw her to her feet. “Here, my lady. You have more need of this than I,” he said, holding out the cloak. She fumbled with the clasp and felt his hands brush hers as he helped to fasten the buckle that held it in place. 

“Your armour...” Lothíriel suddenly remembered the odd sensations of unfastening the buckles, the proximity.

“I will come back for it later. But first I will return you to your lodgings.” His voice was soft but determined.

Side by side they walked along the dark wall, then in file down the narrow staircase. When they reached the ground he held out his arm, and Lothíriel tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. They did not talk. Somehow the moment for talking of trivial things had passed, but neither wished to revisit the terrors they had unleashed when they first talked, pouring out the grief and pain of the day to one another. So Lothíriel nestled by the man's side, warm in his cloak, hand warm next to his body. How strange to think that they had met, talked, touched, and now would see one another no more.

At last they reached the postern gate into the back of the Houses. Lothíriel unclasped the cloak. It hung loosely from her shoulders as she looked up into the face of the man who had kept her company. His face was illuminated by the dull light from the kitchen window, and she could make out his eyes glittering, the outline of his nose and jaw, imagine rather than see the dull gold of his beard and hair. As she looked up, she realised that he was looking at her, and rapidly dropped her gaze.

“Goodbye, my lady,” he said, and held out his hands. She reached out and laid hers, suddenly seeming so small, within his grasp. Slowly, she raised her eyes again, and found he was looking at her once more. She tried to speak, but no sound would come from her throat.

What possessed her next, she would wonder till her dying day. Suddenly, she leaned into the space between them, standing on tiptoes, reaching up with one of those small hands. She buried her fingers in his hair and brushed her lips against his. It was as if every sensation were amplified a hundred fold. His beard was coarser than the hair on his head, but not unpleasantly so. His lips felt rough and chapped against her own. His breath was hot, and she heard a faint noise as it seemed to catch within his chest. Then she was back where she had started, a little out of balance as her weight rocked back on her heels, staring at him with wide eyes, startled by what she had just done. His face registered just as much surprise as she felt, then his lips quirked into a slight smile. His hands, which had been between them, frozen in the act of holding her hands when she let go to grasp his hair, moved. They slipped beneath the folds of the cloak – his cloak – and slid round her waist. She was astonished at the gentleness with which he drew her back towards him. 

The movements seemed slow, dreamlike – whether because they were, or because of her curiously heightened senses which now held her suspended in the moment like a fly in amber, she did not know. His eyes held hers in a steady gaze as he dipped his head, then his lips met hers once more. This time, the kiss lasted. His lips moved against hers, still gently, but exploring every curve of hers with a slow insistence. The street in which they stood, the narrow door, the window casting its dull gleam of light – all these faded from awareness. Instead, she felt his lips move along the side of her jaw, felt him brush her ear, then tug at it gently with his teeth. He made his way back to the corner of her mouth, and she released her breath in a low gasp.

It had never occurred to Lothíriel that kissing could involve tongues as well as lips, but as his tongue traced her lips it seemed to her that this was an entirely natural, and desirable part of kissing. He was still gentle, his tongue teasing, tantalising her with the promise of more. His hands held her waist, then he ran one gently up her spine, pulling her closer to him. She clung to the back of his neck, feeling soft tangles of hair, and grasped at his tunic with her free hand. And all the time his mouth explored hers, softly, insistently, spreading warmth and desire through her whole body. Hesitantly at first, but then with growing confidence, she returned the kiss, bringing her hand up to trace his jaw with her fingertips while simultaneously tracing his lips with her own, then boldly trying out to see what effect her own tongue would have on him.

The result was somewhere between a gasp and a moan, then his arms tightened against her. Suddenly they were both beyond conscious thought, with only room for physical sensation. She lost herself entirely in the feel of skin against skin, rough lips, hair, the feel of her body pressed against his. Then just as suddenly, his lips left hers and he pulled back slightly. With a sigh, he rested his forehead against hers, his grasp on her slackening and becoming gentle once more.

He stroked her cheek, and then gave one of his rare smiles. “I should let you go to your rest.”

“I wish I could stay here,” Lothíriel replied, without really thinking of the implications of her words until they were out of her mouth.

“As do I, but it would not be wise.” Another gentle stroke of her cheek.

“Why not?” asked Lothiriel, though she already knew the answer.

“Because I might be tempted to overstep the bounds of what is proper,” he said, then grinned. “Or perhaps that should be, further overstep the bounds...”

Lothíriel was seized by a sudden wild urge to throw caution to the winds completely. “Suppose I was as happy as you to overstep those bounds?” She looked up at him expectantly.

There was a brief flicker of, what? Desire? Then his face softened and he kissed her softly on the forehead. “I think I can read you well enough to know that you are very, very inexperienced. And that you don't know what it is you are suggesting.” Lothiriel felt herself blush, though she wasn't sure if the man would see this in the dark. “And also, stranger as I am to your realm, nonetheless it doesn't take any particularly great leap of intuition to know you to be a young woman of good family. I know enough of your culture to know that it would be considered a shameful thing to take advantage of your naivety. I would not bring shame upon you, then ride away, perhaps to die on battlefield, leaving you dishonoured.”

Lothíriel leaned in towards him once more and rested her head on his tunic. “Do you think it matters now? When we may all die?” 

She felt his fingers tangle in her hair as he held her head against his chest. Faintly, through the woollen cloth, she thought she could here his heartbeat. “I would rather, if the Valar see fit to spare us, woo you honestly. Or should the worst happen, follow you through the green fields of the hereafter and woo you there. But for now lady, go to your bed, and I to mine, and I will carry the memory of your kiss as a bright light in the darkness to come.”

She felt his fingers under her chin, and he raised her face. All too swiftly he pressed a final kiss to her lips, then stepped back. He bowed to her, then turned and walked into the darkness, leaving her alone at the postern gate.

~o~O~o~

“I came to look for you last night to tell you about Faramir, but you were not there.”

Lothíriel studiously avoided Amrothos' eye as she tried to frame a reply. “I could not sleep, brother, so I went out to take the air. Alas that you did not find me, for I should have slept so much better knowing the crisis in his fever was past. But I am very glad to hear of it now.”

“The Ranger from the North – they say he is the heir of Elendil. He healed both our cousin, and the King of Rohan's sister.”

“The King of Rohan's sister?” A half remembered voice, talking of his wounded kin, not talking of his sister other than as a child. What had she not been told? Lothíriel felt as if the world threatened to shift beneath her feet.

“Aye, unknown to all, she rode in secret with the host, and slew the Witch King in her defence of the body of her uncle, who had been king before he fell.”

The world did not just shift, it tilted on its axis. “Uncle?” said Lothíriel, her voice sounding strangely distant in her ears.

“Lothi, are you well? You seem confused. I think perhaps yesterday's horrors, coupled with a poor night's sleep, have left you overwrought.”

“No, no, Roth, I am fine. You are right, perhaps a little muzzy-headed from tiredness, but nothing a cold draught of water will not set right.”

Amrothos offered her his arm, and she leaned on it perhaps a little more heavily than was her normal habit. They crossed the small courtyard together, and entered the vaulted entrance hall that led to the wards and bedchambers for the patients. There, in the centre of the mosaic floor, stood her father, a tall, dark haired man by his side. The man wore travel stained clothing and looked as if the weight of the world rested upon his shoulders, but carried himself with a noble bearing, a strange air of command. But Lothiriel's eyes were drawn to the third member of the party, the man facing her father, his back to her. He was tall, broad, with long blond hair flowing down over his shoulders. She heard his voice, the unexpectedly soft deep voice she had become accustomed to in the dark the night before.

“My thanks to both of you, my lords. Without you, Prince, my sister would not have been brought to this place for no-one would have realised she still lived. And without you, my Lord and Sword-Brother, she would have perished from the hurts she took upon the battle field.”

The tall man reached out and clapsed her Rider's arm, hand to forearm in the warrior's salute. Her father's voice rang out in answer.

“I was merely the man fortunate enough to be there to attend to your sister, and I rejoice in her recovery.” Suddenly her father caught sight of Lothíriel and Amrothos, and his face broke into a broad smile. “But here is the promise of good cheer and good company this morning. Sire, allow me to present to you my youngest son, Amrothos, and my daughter, the Lady Lothíriel.”

With what felt like agonising slowness, the man turned towards her. Their eyes locked. A look of stunned amazement spread across his face; Lothíriel felt her cheeks catch flame as they had the night before.


End file.
